


Moonshine

by Quantum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1920's, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Flappers, Italian Mafia, Janmaru - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum/pseuds/Quantum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a 1920's AU where Jean Kirschstein is a 28 year old loser who doesn't know what to do with his life until he joins the Bureau of Investigation. Filled with conventional and conservative ideals, he meets the one person who'll change his world. </p><p>Marco Bodt, a transparent and apparently loyal-to-the-government worker finds himself wrapped up around Jean's subtle immersion into the illegal world of Prohibition.</p><p>Full of angst, compromise and--did you guess?--love, this story is about how Jean and Marco try to overcome the difficulties brought by a forbidden era in the time of prohibition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bureau

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy!

I never approved of jazz. That is, to say, perhaps I savored it or even let myself be delighted in its shape and contour, but I never really _approved_ of it. I would shrink, almost lifeless, in a condescending cloud of confusion when I was younger and happened to come across its rhythm. My parents had raised me as a proud devotee of my ethnicity although I really wasn’t. I loved to sing to Jazz and its tunes and let them consume me, but there was always a dreadful side to everything.

Jazz, you see, comes from Harlem, which, according to the woman whose teachings I grew up disciplined with, is a synonym of drunkenness, of the steadily growing population she, herself, instructed me to dislike. Consequently, jazz made me want to move but with enough time on her hands and in my life, my mother managed to make my body wave itself away from the music, and not only that but also from the time I lived in.

I don’t know… I assume this complete situation represents the pressure I’ve always been put up to. That’s where it all comes from; My hatred for the rhythm and instruments I liked listening to the most rose from the land of Jean-Kirshstein’s-shit-childhood.

But jazz—it sounds and echoes all around the back of my mind every time I try to concentrate, and I accidentally sing to its lyrics while suffocating myself under my own oppressive thoughts. _Which is the rooster, which is the hen,_ I sing along to a Harlem jazz and look around me, not wanting to stand where I’m at.

I sigh. The trainer walks past all of the new trainees and hurriedly interviews them. It’s almost my turn. I don’t like this, but it’s not like I have an option anyway. I am forever doomed to stay at the oppressive part of society which suppresses any conduct that is deemed irresponsible or law-challenging.

I do have an objective in mind by working at the bureau, but still I don’t want to be here... I don’t _need_ to suppress anything in this society. I’m used to the short skirts, the smoker gals, their voting right, even. I’m used to the blues, the illegal speakeasies, to the prohibition. And I know, above all, that I really am used to the greatness that surrounds America and forms its culture with such audacity I so humbly dislike. What I’m not yet used to is my inherited conservative reactions toward this all. That’s why I’m here. That, and my need for higher income.

Everyone around me is wearing a serious expression, as if they’d been hit by a plank right in the face. But I’m not. I’m smirking, and so is the person next to me. His smirk, though, is different. I look away.

But, you know what? I’m twenty eight and I have no idea what to do with my life. Who knows when it’ll be all over. Sometimes I really wish it happened without me noticing. My death, that is. I haven’t lived up to the expectations they all had of me. I’m not your star lad, no; I’m your chaotic, oppressed, undesired kind of kid, and, actually? It doesn’t seem like it matters. Not to me, anyway.

The more I try, the less I can get myself to care about life.

“I’ve come here to protect the government”, is the first thing I hear when I drift back from the depths of my mind. I look at the source of that soothing, although unconvincing voice that’s being emitted and let a sly smile form itself in my face, considering the magnificent, yet so slight lie that rolls out of his mouth and is accepted—not so much as an excuse but as a default (and still unbelievably good) answer—by the trainer. I turn my eyes around, noting the answer’s owner’s presence next to mine and then expel air out of my nose, putting on what seems like a really short and quiet kind of laughter. I know I’m doing it out of pride other than any other emotion, really, but nothing can be done to stop it.

I feel jealousy crawling inside me and around my bones as I wish I was able to answer those words instead of him.

Anyhow, the man who’s just answered, or, in other words, the black-haired male whose freckles seem to cover the whole of his body gives me the feeling of being too much of a liar—not because of his expression, which, by the way, looks a bit petrified still when he’s smiling, but only due to the fact that no one could possibly join the Bureau of Investigation to just protect the government. This is not the reason why he’s joined as much as it is the only thing that he’s been able to come up with. _So why has he lied?_ I wonder. He still gets away with it, as everyone else does, and I shrug it off, ranting in my mind about how easy it is to make the government think you’re a perfect fulfiller of the law. And it is not that he isn’t so, but the way in which such simple answers are accepted makes me think that corruption could take over and, judging by the sheer stupidity of America’s law enforcers, no one would notice.  

That’s yet another one of my reasons to not want to be here, adding itself to the fact that I am not fully sure of my decision of joining. Many times I have felt myself swoon due to the stressful condition I live in, not knowing how to become a better son for my parents—Or, at least, a man that knows what to do with his life—and so I stand at the Bureau of Investigation’s official training grounds, waiting for my hidden ambition of becoming a high-ranked investigator (are they called that?) to be a graspable truth and take over my right-now pathless life.

Seeing that I’m what you would call an experienced lawyer, they’ve let me in easily, but my physical state is so pitiful for the kind of job I’ll be attending to that I am deemed to come to these training sessions for two months until I can finally perform what I’ve been hired for.

Soon enough, the trainer stands in front of me and asks—Or, I would dare say he commands— ‘Your name’, to which I naturally answer ‘Jean Kirschstein, sir, from New York’, because they’ve recruited experienced workers from all around the country, and he looks at me for a moment before throwing a second question. ‘What are you here for?’ He requests, his tone and volume higher than before, perhaps demanding for me to speak louder, but I pause, unsure of what to reply. I feel my eyes widen and my brows furrow due to the worry and confusion such question causes in me, but I manage to rapidly ignore those emotions. I think, for some unknown reason, that it will be easier to pull off the truth, even if it isn’t socially correct, and even then, I don’t really _know_ what the true truth is. I can only half-feel it… but I still answer. ‘To become a high-ranked officer and live in a big hou-ah!’

I am not yet finished when the trainer kicks me between my thighs and I fall, kneeling, to the ground. I can hear him screaming over my pain, but I can’t really distinguish one word from another. When I finally look up searching for him, he’s long gone, but I see a hand being offered at me and take it. The man next to me helps me stand back up.

Individual training starts soon after that, and so we all let the day pass.

 

*

 

Eren, whose last name I can’t yet get myself to remember, is quite the palooka. He keeps ranting on and on about how he will, with his own hands, blow all of the mafia down, and the more he speaks, the more he gets on my nerve. When they ask him about Capone, he can only shoot mere opinion-based descriptions, acting as if he’s seen too much of him, and I know he does it to gain attention from the other trainees. But I don’t fall for that. I see everything from behind, sitting next to a coworker I still don’t know, my chin placed on top of my hand—that is, until the man who’s supposedly working at the bureau to _‘protect the government’_ kindly asks everyone to shut it, and so they do.

Only in that very second do I feel tranquil. I don’t know how, but he has managed to calm down the whole trainee squad with just one sentence. Moreover, he's managed to make Eren stop shit-talking. I look at him, at his freckled cheeks and his worried frown and his green-blue dyed vest as he follows a group of people with his eyes to check whether they’re done annoying Eren. _It’s a following-eye contest_ , I think, for I realize that I am, too, following him with my sight. Somehow, a progressively larger curiosity about him arises in my mind due to his ability to calm down the entire group of people.

But I let it go. I eat, not much but enough, and from then on, everything seems unimportant, except for Eren. I argue with him, but it truly doesn’t matter. I do it in order to lie restful in bed that night but I’m not sure what he does it for. I’m definitely not concerned about his reasons, as he may have many and I thoroughly reckon that those people like him, who entitle themselves to the fulfillment of enormous responsibilities, might have the most disgraceful knots in their minds. However, truth be told, the snobby way he speaks still drags me toward exasperation. He thinks too high of himself, so I stand up once again from my bench and clear my mind through what I think are relentless screams. He follows my action and we soon bound up each other in one distressful clash of opinions.

That is until Erwin, the second in command, breaks in and obliges us to pretend nothing has happened. We walk back to our tables and sit, uncomfortably and occasionally glancing at each other.

At the end of the dining time, a loud ring allows us to walk out of the training building and back into our lives, and after having moved down the staircases and out of the Bureau, I’m standing in the middle of the street thinking what to do next that night, my lifestyle destroyed by my faultless carelessness, when I’m shaken by a slam coming from behind my back. I hiss a cuss and turn around, ready to groan out a word—any word—to whoever still has their hand placed on my body, but when I do, and although it takes me time to notice the origin of what’s bumped against me, I look around and finally stumble upon _his_ face.

The freckled man, again.

But he doesn’t look back at me and instead continues to pace away from the building. I decide to go home and get some sleep.

 

*

 

I normally wake up to the sound of automobiles being rebuilt outside my apartment. I don’t have a clock nor a way to measure time because, on top of it all, above my great feeling of numbness and despair resides my biggest flaw: I’m a light sleeper. And that’s not a problem, to be honest. It’s just a medium through which I form my daily schedule, but it becomes bothersome when you live in New York.

Today, though, I don’t wake up. Who needs to wake up when they haven’t slept at all, anyway? There are many things that haven’t let me get my mind blank for me to get to sleep, but it’s—I don’t know. I’m guessing its _fine._

I get ready for work, take my training clothes, put on my working suit and take off to the building where we’ve been training. It doesn’t take me long to get there, even when I’ve travelled on foot, because of the really short distance I have to go through. On my way there and almost reaching the door, I see Eren.

Due to my tiredness, I feel an exhaustive pain drilling my inside, so I stand alone without crossing the road until I can no longer see him. I’m about to start walking again when a coworker greets me. If I’m not wrong, his name’s Reiner.

‘Kirschstein,’ he says, I’m not sure if greeting me or just to cover the silence.

‘Braun?’ I answer, unsure, seeing still as he nods at me.

‘Ready for today?’ I hear him say, and this time I’m the one who’s nodding, although my words come out differently.

‘You wouldn’t believe how tired I am right now.’ I announce as a way to conclude the conversation. I’m not keen at keeping those up, so after my answer I begin walking again, Reiner following me. He doesn't give me an answer.

 

The rest of the day goes on like that. I spend my time with him. Blurred motions and unconscious actions make up for the rest of the hours I have stayed here. By the end of the first training session, my body feels sore although I’d say it’s a good kind of sore, now that my tiredness has gone away and been replaced with a more energetic kind of exhaustion, and thus, is no longer collapsing on me and crashing against my shoulders. Anyhow, as I wait for my turn to take my lunch, I stand in line behind a tall person whose name is unknown to me but I’ve seen working hazardously, as if with a clear objective in mind. He’s friends with Reiner, as far as I know. 

My head aches, so I burry my face on my hand and look, hurtfully, only through my left eye. That’s when I see him, the freckled man, standing next to me. He’s talking to Eren, showing him, as I guess, his ankle. 

 ‘…It’s not broken or anything but you can see how the bone pops out if I move it like this’ and a shiver wraps up my whole body as I hear, even from a slight distance, the aforementioned pop that not only is visible but, to me, resounds through the whole hall we’re standing at.

‘Holy Jesus!’ I let out unconsciously. He’s crackling. _Does he not feel pain?_ He looks at me, inviting me to join the conversation with his eyes, but I look away. When he finally turns his head and attention back to Eren, I turn mine back to his foot.

He adjusts his extremity into his right shoe, the action occasionally interrupted by his own winces. “It does hurt, indeed.” I overhear. _So he can feel pain._ 

As he moves with the objective of straightening his body, my eyes fall on his hands before finally standing on his face. His motions are gentle, as if there was nothing he’d ever wanted to break. Then everything comes into place. I remember how he was, last night, the only person who caught my interest. This, I note because his complete body, even his foot, is filled with tiny, dark flaws, each one standing side to side with another and so on, naturally filling his skin. It’s the same man, I recall. The freckled man. 

‘Kirschstein!’ I hear and instantly become aware of the existing world around me. It’s Reiner. He offers me to sit with him after getting my lunch but I refuse, as serious as I can. After gathering all my food, I drift towards the only vacant table. It’s not that I want to be alone but… I kind of want to be alone. 

 

And I’m eating, just normally, when _he_ appears next to me.  “I might have to sit here,” he says and instantly places his butt on the wooden chair, next to my body. Care to know, I’m speaking about the man with the popping ankle. 

I swallow my words trying not to scare him off with my rudeness, so my only answer ends up being a careless shrug, to what he responds by finally putting his plate on the table. We stay quiet for about five minutes. When I feel that the situation is getting about as awkward as it can get, I open my mouth to speak. When I do, though, my words stumble with his.

“So why’d you sit all by yourself?”

“What’s wrong with your ankle?”

He stammers and lets out a big smile. “Oh.” I don’t know whether that word comes out of his mouth or mine, but we both end up laughing awkwardly and quietly at the coincidence. Then I stay still, mouth not moving, and he decides it’s his god given turn to speak. I grant him that.

He looks down at his foot and then at my face. We exchange sights for less time that my mind can process and it doesn’t take long before he’s looked away. “I messed up at today’s training”.

I stay silent at his comment, perhaps waiting for more. He raises his eyebrows, staring at me, and I motion my head sidewards as if telling him to be more detailed. 

“Oh—I don’t know. I was training and suddenly… ah, you heard it pop, didn’t you? Something inside my ankle got- um… off. And-” Before he has the chance to keep repeating what he’s already told me, I interrupt him. I don't need details, it seems. Perhaps further explanation?

“You already told me that. What are you going to do?” I rephrase what I’d meant with my expression and he nods to me in return, his smile fading for the first time. I see him scowl, possibly examining what he’s about to answer, or so I think, until his head falls and looks down at the plate.

“I can’t fail at this. If I do it’ll be all over,” he starts, his voice containing an audible shiver. I’m tempted to ask what will be over, when he continues. “And I can’t let it happen, you know? I can't just lose the job. I need this. I might have to come tomorrow and-”

 _Oh_. I stop listening. What he says is somewhat distressful for me.

Somehow, an overwhelming feeling of guilt falls on me like a cascade and I finally notice. I move my head from side to side just slightly as to resist my own struggling thoughts from coming out of me in the form of sentences. I notice, though. Even with my head wanting to be blank and my body forcing it, I notice—I can’t possibly do anything and I’m still there, wasting space, as others literally depend on this job to have a life. If I wanted to, I could live of off my parents’ financial benefits, whereas people like him give up on their health for a chance, even if small, to work at the bureau.

Guilt has always been what I try to keep away from me the most. It wrecks me in a way I can’t possibly explain. It’s the source of all my actions. I feel it all the time. I’m feeling guilt when not saying something I should or when I sing a song I’m not supposed to know. I feel guilt, and it kills me little by little. _Fuck._

Now, I consider myself a very selfish person— _Why am I doing this, of all people?, I wonder—but_ there are exceptions. I want to excuse myself in some way. I want to get away from the burden guilt represents.

“I could cover your back.”

_Just say yes. Get me out of this mental state. Say yes, freckled man._

“No.” He says, albeit softly.

An almost indiscernible amount of air comes out of his nostrils, which, to me, sounds like a shy laugh as he shakes his head slightly while still looking at his plate. I swallow and clear my throat, unable to say anything else. _Well. Fuck you._ A stride of pride boils inside me, and that he can note.

“What if you do, though? I’ll still miss work and, most importantly, training. I’m grateful, really, but I’d put too much pressure on you. You know what? Don’t worry. I’ll come and, I don’t know, I can figure it out.” And just then I can tell _he’s_ trying to calm _me_ down. I sigh, trying, really, actually struggling not to lose my temper, and stand up, not yet done with my food but no longer feeling hungry. “Whatever.”

Guilt is not yet gone but instead replaced with anger. He stands up behind me and follows me. We both throw our leftovers and put our plates where they’ll be picked up later on. I try to ignore him, but he’s still following me around, not really saying anything. I let myself get even more angry at this as I make my way to the exit and when I’m about to lose it and turn around, only one question comes to my mind. Then it happens again.

“Why the fuck are you walking at my pace if you hurt your ankle?”

“Your name is Jean, right?”

Only this time, an ‘oh’ doesn’t come out of either’s mouth. The fact that it’s happened for a second time only bothers me more. Expectant, I wait for him to answer but he keeps this expression, this thought-ripping, consuming look in his eyes to which I can’t not answer. I think that’s what you call genuine curiosity, or naivety. Whatever it is, it makes me give up on my anger.

“Did you guess?”  

He moves his hand up to his face and places his index finger under his nose. I can’t tell why he’s doing it, but as soon as I think of it, he removes his hand, eyes me from feet to shoulders and finally looks back up at my face, meeting my sight. “Not really. I heard you yesterday. You were next to me.”

“Ah.” I simply let out, coldly.

“Is that a French name?”

“Are you serious?” I hiss, annoyed. His reaction is natural. He stays calm and only dares, I’d say, to show me a smile. A set smile, that is. I’ve always been able to read through people’s expressions.

“U-uhm. Well. Nice to meet you, Ja-ahn. My name is Marco—Italian, as you’d guess.” Marco extends the vowels in my name as he says it, which makes me, although uncomfortably, laugh a little on the inside. That’s not really how my name’s pronounced—not in English, at least.

He places his hand between our bodies and the look on his big, brown eyes, obliges me to shake it. I feel comfortable for a second, as if, somehow, he’s made me forget. Suddenly it’s like he’s stolen everything that crosses my mind. It’s all blanks and I-don’t-knows inside me. As he looks at me I feel as if he’s reset my emotions and thoughts back to the beginning. It’s like having gone all the way back to the start of the day. But I remember.

“So your ankle…”

“Oh, I _can_ walk. It’s just bruised and feels strange when I move it, and, you know; It pops. But it’s not as bad as you think.” It’s not funny but he simply laughs, and for a reason, I do too. His smile, I think, happens to be contagious. I’m somewhat calmed and something feels different. It feels, perhaps, like it’s a good thing to speak with him. _I’ll figure it out,_ I think when I wonder how I’ll help him with his ankle and myself with my guilt.

“See why I told you? No need to cover my back. I’ve got it covered, Jean.”  

And we’re tired, and I've got a headache and we're just standing at the building’s cafeteria waiting for another training session to start, and we’re in the middle of April and it’s boiling inside the place, and I’m sweating and he’s just smiling and we’re there. And I’m not angry anymore and he’s, somehow, managed to ignore my terrible temper. And, you know what? _It’s fine_.

Somehow, for a reason I can’t truly understand, I feel like it matters. Like something matters, if at least a bit. He smiles at me expectantly and I frown. It’s my turn to speak. Before I wonder why we’re taking turns, though, my mind betrays my intention not to show too many emotions.

 _At least_ , I think, _I’m not smiling_. _Too much._

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too, Marco.”   


	2. The Daily Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Marco is being mysterious, Jean being moody, and Armin, himself.

It’s only been almost two weeks, but two killing weeks nevertheless. To be honest, since the day training started I have drowned in my own exhaustion. My eeriness to be part of the Bureau (or of something, really), which proved itself not easy to get in the first place, has slowly let itself fall dead, covered by how excruciating the training process has become in a matter of days.

Every night, though, I get the feeling that it’s finally over, so I let myself get overjoyed about the fact that I’ll be facing something new the next day, as ironic as that may sound. It's made me glad to know, out of assumption, that I’ll be able to sleep due to an actual, physical tiredness that forces me into the action of letting myself drowse onto my bed every night.

Aside from that, this one specially has been a strange week. To talk about it, though, I need to start from the beginning; that is, the third day of work. You see...

When I was first told I needed a partner to work with at the one-on-onesessions of the training, everything just seemed, perhaps, a bit more worthless to me. I felt the ground suddenly taking me from my legs and pulling me to the floor, which instantly deemed me mentally tired. Not because I wasn’t interested in getting to know anyone, but inasmuch as I had to cope with my learning process, having yet to face someone else’s gave me a bitter feeling inside. Dependence was a two-sided weapon, and, all in all... I just didn't want things to go that way. However cautious I was, nothing ever seemed to work how I wanted it to.  The news, thus, gave me a renewed feeling of weariness even when I hadn’t been awake for more than three hours.

On top of the fact that I'd arrived late by at least half an hour at work, I was immediately exasperated by Eren’s chanting and my own need for a hidden (also look up non-existing) ability to put up with what he claimed to be but wasn’t. He was always so full of himself. I could hear him from downstairs, his penetrating voice running through every corner of the Bureau; hence, when I went up to the changing room where the locker in which I was supposed to put all my non-training clothes in was, I was already prepared to fight back. At what? I had no idea, but I didn’t fail at suspecting what was to happen either way, because the second I entered the room, a loud stomp hit the back of my body. Like a wrecking ball hitting a wall too tired or perhaps too old to stand up for itself, the hard blow tripped me forwards and, as much as I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from stumbling with a wooden bench that was right in front of me and finally falling, albeit slowly and quite clumsily, onto the freezing surface caused by an early 6 a.m. weather, hitting both my legs and my butt in the process. 

“It was only a slap!” I heard between laughter. Now, I was not yet totally acquainted with the voice of my to-be-comrades, but when I heard it, I was ready—

Ready to turn around, pull myself back into my feet and throw a fist—without even aiming—at the person who’d _slapped_ me in the back, because, oh man, hadn’t that been Eren’s voice? Only, when I followed those actions, I didn’t quite find his eyes. Instead, a reddish, surprise-faced Marco welcomed my glower, his hand still pointing in the direction of the ceiling only to keep the position it had after I received the slam he’d given me. I stopped dead in my tracks, my fist only slightly colliding against his shoulder as an effect of inertia. He was wide eyed as if not guilty although he happened to be. “You’re like that too?” I asked, frustration raveling through my mind. I noticed, right then, I'd only been annoyed at Eren. The fist I'd aimed at _nothing_ had actually happened with the sole objective of hitting him.

Marco, though... Marco was a different subject. I had nothing, really, to be mad at him about. I was, perhaps, angrier about the fact that it hadn't been Eren who’d slapped me.

“I—Jean, you weren’t supposed to fall—I didn't see the bench. I’m sorry-?” He had this thing I’d noticed the night before that incident—when he spoke, sometimes, the tone of his voice went an octave higher and his sentences ended with a question mark instead of a period. An imaginary question mark, that is. Anyhow, this was one of those times, and the intention with which he did it was good. Not only was he sorry but confused. It impressed me how transparent he was, like the mere voice he emitted could describe all he was feeling. In that moment he seemed so simple to understand I almost couldn’t believe it. My face's muscles somehow pulled a smile I quickly fought back.

But he’d also laughed at his own confused remark, which made it quite simple to just let myself do the same thing. His gestures said everything; his gentility when he moved, his somehow-always tremulous smile, his eyes, always so wide, like he wanted to eat up the whole world with them. By his sole look I knew more about his blameless intentions. He wasn’t sorry, but at least I knew he’d been joking. I hissed, still, and after a gust laugh, rolled my eyes as I turned my body towards the locker. Only then did I remember Eren’s voice—when it was back into my ears.

“Marco, just tell’im to calm the fuck down,” He mumbled and I, who wasn’t too far from him and had a hearing capacity I could brag about, casually _overheard._ He'd fallen for it and hadn't I just fallen too. I glared at the lockers in front of me, as if accepting a silent challenge he'd made to fight him.

“Look who’s talking, Eren, you-” I started, furiously, and turned around to him. I felt like I’d been dancing all along, turning my back depending on the changes the music prompted me to follow as if in a waltz, although my dancing was visibly harsher. But hell, I _was_ in the mood for that. It didn’t take much of my energy until my good side was buried for good somewhere deep under my slowly crescent lack of patience. I took a deep, loud breath as my body prepared itself for a good one-on-one. It would be considered the first good chunk of training, wouldn’t it?

“Just calm down, Jean!”

 _Huh?_ I turned to face Marco after hearing the higher pitch at the end of the sentence. He was looking directly at my eyes, his instantly-faded glare consuming mine. “What did you just say?” I croaked abruptly.

He shrugged simply, a smile slowly crawling into his face upon the feeling of Eren’s hand placed on his shoulder. “You need to relax.”

Everyone around us was minding their own business. We were at the very entrance of the room, plus none of us had been as loud as my lack of patience had made it out to be in my mind. What is more, I later realized that Marco was letting out tiny laughs in between his words, as if not really concerned about the situation. Only I was tense.

“Whatever.” I mumbled.

And that was it. That was the greeting I got. It could’ve been fine, and I could’ve gone on with my day normally, but those things never happen. As the misfortunate being I am, and as if my day hadn’t started out bad enough, Reiner’s arrival to the lockers only brought trouble.

“G’morning, sissies! I have this list of whom we all have to pair up with. Ya’ll ready?” The sore—and seemingly loudest—scream he emitted made not only me want to cringe. Soon, his loyal companion, Bertholdt, walked up to him, calmly took the paper off his hands and just placed it on the bench I’d dropped and he’d picked up without me noticing. He mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand, but it worked, for Reiner’s loud voice lowered itself into a whisper as he responded just before he led his friend farther into the locker section.

Eren rapidly reached out for the paper and instantly—and I mean, instantly. Not even after he’d looked at it— absorbed the information the paper had written on it. _Energy is never created nor destroyed, only transformed,_ I thought. It was as if the paper itself had held the energy that was passed on to him. His naturally green eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed as if trying to erase what he'd read from his mind.

“Not. Ever.” Eren's face fell flat in disbelief, being those words all he could pull out. It was the kind of disapproval caused by something you’d believed all along—like when Murphy’s Law goes wrong, going as you’d expected it to be. He motioned his face towards me, half inviting me to see what he’d read, half demanding I stayed far.

Needless to say, I walked towards him, glanced at the paper and in no way did what I saw surprise me. From his reaction, I’d just known. I knew he’d be my partner for the next two months, which, strangely enough, he’d also known beforehand. “I was expecting it.” He simply let out as an explanation before proceeding to announce the other pairings. 

“Marco, you’re with Reiner. I bet you can’t take’im down. Bert, you’re with Thomas. I don’t know anyone else, so someone should pick this up ‘cause I’m leaving.”

And just as he said, without warning shots, without any more words, he left the room. 

*

“-But can you believe it?” I asked aloud between my gritted teeth.

Marco, who'd offered to stay with me as I finished changing, gave me a casual nod in return as we paced down the stairs and into our first day of training. He didn't understand how bothered the idea of having to stick with Eren for two months made me feel. I didn't, either, but at least I pretended I did.  An almost overwhelming silence fell upon us as we got closer to the training grounds outside the building. Until then, we'd only shared an amount of words you could count with four hands.  Was he distracted?

“I’m not letting that happen, though. You’ll help me out of this.” I concluded bashfully.

As he did habitually, I think, he put his index finger on top of his lip and looked sideward. “U-um…”

“One, you can’t be as strong as Reiner. And you have a broken _gam_.” I joked.

“Mind you, that'd mean Eren’s as strong as Reiner…” He ignored my mention of his his leg.

So I naturally did too. “Whatever. If that means I won't have to hear him boast for two months, so be it.” 

“Look, Jean, I’m flattered by your offer b-” He was capable of emitting one of his tiny laughs before I cut him off midphrase. _Is he ever serious?_

“Just fight Reiner. They’ll notice a mistake right there, in their predictions. He’ll beat you up before you even notice, and-”

Before I'd even noticed, he was gone. Wondering how much time I'd spent talking to myself, which wasn't too long actually, I scanned both of my sides but couldn't quite see him around. As an effect of a minuscule, yet fierce panic caused by having been ignored, I sunk... not in the actual meaning of the word, per se, but mood sunk as I stood there for a moment staring at nothing in particular, letting my biggest question come into presence. Why is it so complicated to have someone actually, genuinely listen? I always shrug this off, you see. I try to put it at the end of the list of things to think about, to completely ignore its existence. I really try, but it keeps on happening, and no matter how many times I tried to ignore it, it kept on happening over and over again, as if life itself stuck to reminders so that I knew it would happen. No one ever listens, and there it was. The only insecurity of mine, portrayed all over my body and face, always plastered at my seemingly absent expression.

 

Only, right then, I felt a mild touch on my arm, which made me drift back to the actual place where I was supposed to be placing all my attention. I half-twisted my body, just as my eyes wandered up to his face. He was looking directly, solely at me. I made a good effort at showing indifference. "Huh?"

"I arranged everything. You're not with Eren anymore. But you'll have to take care of my ankle."

He smiled and let out a small laugh, but I couldn't laugh now. No punny remarks, no smiles.

"What the fuck." My blinking, yet wry expression, aside from the answer I'd given him, said everything else that needed to be communicated. It didn't take long before he'd understood I was lost.

"Oh, you know, since only you noticed I was wounded...?" Again, the octave-higher pitch. A small laughter came out from the depth of my throat. Now that I think of it... why was I laughing so much?

But curiosity overcame the sudden alleviation I'd felt. "No, I mean... how-?"

"I told you I messed u-"

I didn't notice he was just trying to ignore the real thing, the real question, by referring about his wounded extremity.

"Not that, sap." I growled. "How did you manage to change the set pairs?"

"O-oh... I have my ways, Jean."

He was soft and unbelievably careful when he spoke. Aside from that, I didn't care, really, about his answer on how he'd done it. Moreover, "Why'd you do it?"

"Because you'd put Eren in a jam, and he happens to be my fellow."  I thought he'd deadpanned judging by the monotone in which he'd spoken, but when I turned around, there it was, the disarming smile. I'm not good at avoiding those, but I tried to nevertheless.

I grunted and paced away from Marco. Although I didn't want to show it, I was thankful at that moment. I genuinely thought he was pretending to be Eren's friend just to have an excuse for the help he'd just offered. That was what his eyes told me, anyway, and I was guilty of believing. For me, he'd just made me a favor. He'd gone out of his way to please my whim.

And it was alright.

*

That day and the few days that came after that were all the same. They were rides. We would start off at the same point--every single day-- and travel the whole ground defending ourselves from each other, probably doing some learning in the process. He had tricks he claimed were his (and also bragged about them, as if they were actually worth the try), like pointing directly at me with whichever weapon he was holding at the moment and threatening me with not-so-kind words but the kindest of his smiles, which he failed to avoid from appearing in his face from time to time.

We weren't the best at self-defense—hell, we were saps. But when he pointed at me, the look on his eyes like a hundred needles, directly caught me and sudden rushes of I-don't-know-what washed through my body. I shot words back at him before taking long, fast leaps, until finally attacking him.

Sometimes I threw myself over him, some others I followed the self-defense exercise we were being taught, but that seldom happened. Otherwise, I would just run and he'd drop the weapon. And we'd laugh.

Most importantly, we'd laugh.

He started to eat with me after a few days, accompanied only by my presence, but each day the training became more difficult to handle and, as it went, our words got equally buried under our strained rants about how a bit of work was now too much to deal with.  We not only had one-on-one training, after all. There was much more done. To me it was—is—just a salad made up of different ingredients jammed into one, never-changing and always-exhausting routine, meaning it was, after all, the same salad.

After lunch, though, our dynamics went back to normal since we'd eaten and recovered. We have one hour for that, and in that week that time was a God-given right for us. We used it to relax and talk to each other. He tried to keep conversations moving, as if scared of the tiny moments of silence. When quietness covered us, Marco would strain it until it disappeared by asking me something—anything. I told him about my life, my parents, my non-existing wife, my dreams... and then I asked him back.

That was how I began to notice he always avoided my questions.

***

After the first weekend I noted how Marco's expression had become the only thing that could possibly betray him. As much as I saw him try not to show himself lousy, on that Monday his foul mood was only reflected through his now-forced smiles, accompanied with fixed gazes into nothingness and a blank, absent look in his eyes. His mind, unlike his body, was elsewhere.

Despite having noticed, I didn't ask him about it due to my unconscious knowledge about the fact that either way, whichever the answer could be, he'd avoid giving it to me. So I went on with the day as normally as I could. I greeted him several times without getting anything back from him, as in nothing at all. Not even a look. This would've normally made me feel hysterical, but, as strange as it might've appeared to be coming from me, I, instead, felt uneasy about him. Somehow... maybe, worried.

Perhaps trying to be empathetic—because hell, I had tried— around Marco in order to understand him had had unnoticeable effects that later on had turned out to be what occupied the greatest part of my mind. On that day, at least.

In fact, since I was so honestly invested in the curiosity Marco posed upon me, the individual training session came and left as fast as it'd arrived. I didn't even pay attention to the exercises we made. He'd missed that piece of training on that day, which had managed to grab most, if not all, of my attention. Was he hurt? Had he done something bad? I couldn't help but think about all kinds of answers to satisfy my curiosity. Who would've thought none of them would be right?

The slight, yet so noticeable change in Marco's behavior drifted my attention towards totally different aspects. For more than one reason, I found myself overthinking about him. Perhaps it was the fact that I was starting to consider him more important than someone I'd casually or even randomly, met. After all, he knew more than I did about me. He could, and I'd noticed, read through my words and grasp their real meaning. That was how he managed to control our conversations, and although I'd realized this, I didn't really stress too much about it. No one had listened to me as much as he had, and I was thankful.

We hadn't talked about anything important in retrospective, actually. It was all so simple, it somehow seemed... overwhelming how so much simplicity had said so much about me. Whatever the reason for that was, I felt like he'd taken care of my anger by pulling out other sides of me I hadn't yet discovered and thus, I had the responsibility of looking after him, even if we were strangers. Hell, even if we'd only talked to each other for about eight hours. 

 

As a consequence, once the one-on-one training started, I was ready to catch him from behind, surprise him and stress words out of him, whatever they were. I didn't care. I didn't need to hear any truths. I just needed to hear—no— to _listen_ to him. 

However, when he stood opposite to me, all I could do was freeze, my muscles tensing up, feeling the shiver caused I don't know if by the cold air hitting me or the nerves reaching for my every extremity. Just as I did, though, Marco froze too, but for different reasons. It'd happened to me, I think, out of confusion. But to him... well... that's something I still can't quite decipher.

Marco, who'd always asked to hold the weapon of preference first, threw it lightly in my direction and nodded once, directing me towards it when it fell on the ground. "It's your turn", were the first words I heard from him on that day.

"Wasn't it yours?"

He didn't answer, nor did his sight even stumble with mine. As a sign that I'd given up on trying to interact, I lumbered up to the wooden knife Marco had thrown and picked it up. "Ya ready?" I asked, expecting no answers. Without looking up at him, I placed my right foot on the ground and without a need for impulse, my feet started moving, rather fast, at him.

Only did my eyes dare to look his way when I'd bounced with his body, stabbing him with the harmless toy I had in my hand. I'd run up to him, he'd taken an unexpected hit, and then it was like a film in slow motion. I could almost see each frame passing by. I felt his hand tugging at my wrist and his body defying gravity as it parted away from the ground in order to cling to mine, making it fall abruptly, my back hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. I'm not sure if I emitted the loud wail I heard. For a second, I think, I felt myself fall unconscious. 

Air came out of my mouth as it would come out of balloons. My lungs, themselves, compressed into jammed sheets of tissue. My eyes closed again when I hit the ground as a response to the dry blow my head had received when falling. I tried to move, not yet opening any of the body parts that I’d closed. But when I made for my arms and commanded a movement, surprise fell upon me. I couldn't move.

My eyes responded first. Without me noticing, they acted on their own; they opened themselves.

The tip of his bangs slid through my eyelids as they struggled against the strange feeling friction between hair and skin caused.

His ruffled hair was all over my face, small droplets of sweat travelling down his slightly soaked bangs and falling on my forehead. His eyebrows, I recall, had nothing but their natural curve imprinted on them. His expression was blank although he was staring back at me. I felt him close, and wondered if that was the reason why I still couldn't breathe.

So I tried to fill in my lungs. But there was something that wasn't quite working, and it wasn't necessarily my chest. That was when I noticed— when I tried to look down but couldn't.

He had his left hand all around my neck, pushing it to the ground, his thumb pointing to my chest. How long we stayed like that, I don't even know nor can tell. I'm not fully sure of my consciousness at that moment. Numbness was trapped in my every bone and nerve. I gasped for air, albeit harshly, trying to defy the force his hand made against my throat.

And he gasped too.

I imagine that, from the movement of my throat, just as if he'd woken up from a long sleep, his eyes closed and opened again, this time taking their natural shape, their usual black-hole nature absorbing everything around them. They were, once again, as wide as I'd seen them before that day. He looked at me following the trail of his arm until he reached my neck with his eyes. Once they were there, he gasped, and I gasped too, this time able to beathe. He'd removed his hand.

When I looked up at his face again, his mouth was slightly open in surprise. 

I stood up on my own, instantly placing my hand in the air as an offer for him to hold it. He refused, placed his back on the ground, the back of his right arm on his eyes, and breathed in, slowly. We stood quiet. Even if someone had seen, no one'd approached us.

"I have terrible reflexes," he said finally.

"Terrible my fucking-"

"No, I mean, terribly good." An abrupt, forced laugh came out of his throat. His voice was shaky, but it's modulated tone gave me a different feeling, like he was back to normal.

I slowly sat down next to him, my knees curved and almost reaching my chest. Had he really tried to choke me? I was quiet.

We stayed like that for about ten minutes, neither of us speaking. Words weren't needed in this occassion, and that he knew. I was aware that something had happened to him; something important which he wouldn't let me know, and trying to make him say it first, I didn't ask.

After a melody of sighs and what I thought of as him struggling against the sound of involutary whines, he stood and prompted me to train with him. I did.

I still wondered why everything had happened. Him trying to choke me, me not trying to get away. Him, straddling me, my arms and chest and body all trapped beneath him. I wondered what'd made him react like that.

But I didn't ask.

*

"Are you always like that?" He asked after hearing the bell that informed that the two-hour one-on-one training was over.

I was instantly confused. "Huh? How?"

"Like, mad at the world, man, I don't know." He said, his old self fully back to life.

Without looking at him, a slightly surprising laugh bundled itself up in my throat. Was that how embarrassment felt? I turned my head and glanced at him. "No, I'm not. Why would you even ask that?"

"It's plastered all around your face!" He explained and as soon as he'd finished talking I felt a small slap turn my face around. "Quit looking at me like that. You know it's true."

Like...how? Was I looking at him somehow? Still confused, I shrugged, feeling my face grow red.

"That's bull. Dry up!" I demanded.

Right then he simply laughed, his shoulders vibrating up and down. I followed. I had no idea why, but we were laughing like it had been funny. I was glad about that for a second, which made my laughter top his, but the many questions I'd ignored and kept didn't take time to crowd my mind. When the post-laughter effects were gone, I directed my words toward the table.

"Did something happen over the weekend?"

It was obvious something had happened; I just needed him to assure that to me. There was no way out, but his face still contorted into an emotion I couldn't quite name, and he shrugged, hesitant. I was sure he'd answer to one of my questions ever since the third day of training. He finally smiled coldly and turned to me.

"About that... did you do anything interesting? Met any ladies?"

And I raged. I seriously couldn't believe it. With an abrupt thud, I threw the chair back at the table after having stood up. I didn't even take my plate.  It didn't matter. But why, why was he avoiding my questions?

Moreover, I couldn't recall him not being mysterious. I didn't know anything about him, and yet I'd fallen for his attitude. I'd told him everything. Every thing, every detail that could be told easily was something he now held in his memory. That was why in that moment, for me, Marco was full of shit. No more, no less than that. _Pretentious motherfucker_ , I half thought, half mumbled. I decided wouldn't talk to him, let alone look for any kind of interaction. He tried to follow me, but I stiffly turned around and glared at him, his eyes squinting through my gestures until he understood and finally left.

Later on, on the same day, I came to the realization that the reactions he had toward my questions were such because of how scared he was to make a bad impression. I quietly thanked god for individual training instead of one-on-one, and that was how Monday came to an end.

Only, when I went out of the Bureau, ready to walk back home, I felt his now usual slam on my back, but this time I didn't turn around and only cussed.

The rest of the week flew by like that. We'd only share the necessary words at lunch, until he was back at Eren's table. He hadn't cared. But as much as I tried not to give it thoughts, I couldn't stop myself from overthinking. Had my reaction been too harsh or too exaggerated? Was I right about him? Did he really not care?

I ended up shrugging it off nevertheless. Every single time. I couldn't care. Not if he didn't... and, on top of that, we weren't even friends. We'd only talked for a week, and I was genuinely glad for a second that I didn't have to spend lunch time with a pretentious, weak sister, for two months.

He couldn't even think by himself.

And I couldn't stop caring.

***

On Friday, it struck me that he would never stop being pretentious if he didn't have someone to tell him about his mistake, so I took the toll and decided I'd confront him at the end of the day. Now that I think of it, maybe it was more out of desperation than the need for him to know. I hadn't spoken to anyone in the past four days. On my very inside, I felt the need to use what I'd been taught against anyone; to fight, to fist someone and be hit by them, but Eren had calmed down and we'd kind of come to terms. Aside from him, there was nothing, really, that bothered me, so I couldn’t take my anger out on anyone else. Thus, I had no excuses to fight.

Except for Marco. He was the perfect pretext.

Thereupon, when the time came and we charged out of the Bureau, I couldn't wait until I felt his usual slap on my back, so I turned around to face him and found him, shamelessly, motioning his arm towards me. He was close; closer than I'd expected. A smile filled the gap of how distant we'd been. However, I ignored him along with his false attitude. He wanted me to speak to him, I noticed, and I followed the action clearly, my words dug deep in my mind as if carved instead of scattered. I knew exactly what to say... just, not quite, what to start with.

I looked down at his feet and wandered up to meet his eyes, finally. He was expectant, glancing at every direction. Was there somewhere else he needed to go to?

"It'll be fast, I promise." I conceded seriously. He replied with a low hum, as if asking me to be so. His eyebrows knit in a way I could tell there was something clouding his mind. _Perfect_ , I thought.

"Marco, why are you so scared?" I had to cuss. There was no way not to mention a cuss word. Neither in my time, nor in the mood I had. He didn't answer but instead gave me a plain look. That prompted the cuss.

"I thought you were just not answering my questions, but the truth is you're so fucking afraid. You're afraid of everything. Look at you, Marco!" My voice shivered along with my body.

I kind of wanted to wait for an answer but knew I would get none, so I continued.

"All you want is to fit in. To give your best impression in order to appear naive or I-don't-know-the-fuck-what, because you never say anything. You're a pretentious, pansy motherfucker." I continued, my stentorian voice colliding against the buildings all around us, clashing and breaking through the peaceful nature of a Friday night.

Like the buildings, though, Marco stood strong opposite to me. I was so mesmerized by my own urge to fight him I didn't notice he'd lighted up a cigarette and started smoking it, careless. "Are you do-" He started, but it didn't take long before I'd cut him off. He was waiting for me to finish attacking him, I could tell.

"You'd rather die, right? You'd rather do that instead of letting anyone see through your real self. And you know what?" Not rhetorical, yet unanswered.

"It eats me up. Your attitude, I mean. You're like Eren, but worse."

And this is where we are. This is what the two-week story had led me. At this point I am already swaying from side to side, the last drops of patience clung to my forceful fists. "Why don't you fucking answer, god damn it!"

"Jean..." He finally manages to push out. "...don't think you can read through me. You can’t read through people."

"Oh, but I can." I argue, my eyes wide open with annoyance crawling out of them.

“No, in fact you can’t, so stop trying. You don’t know shit about me.” He deadpans.

I grit my teeth and tighten my fists. _Why does he never raise his voice?_

"No, you don't get it, Marco-" He almost interrupts me but fails to do so, only speaking when I'm finished. I can see, finally, how astoundingly angry he seems. But when he speaks it's as though he weren't mad, his voice soothing as ever.

"No, you're the one who's not getting it."

My last intention to fight him turns into a movement. I push him by throwing both of my hands at his chest. He moves two steps back due to the unexpected thump he's received, looks down at the wet floor as if thanking fate for not making him fall, and with a single blink, his eyes are, once again, staring at me. They absorb my anger and words as I speak. His brows are finally furrowed enough for his skin to fold. But once I'm sure I have his attention, I continue. " _Says you_! Well, you know what? I would _get_ _it_ but since you're so fucking afraid you won't tell me anything!"

"Nonsense." Is all he mutters before starting to pace away from me.

Soon enough, when I'm about to follow him, a T-model comes out of the shadows. A somewhat ethel puts a foot on the floor and proceeds to get off the car. His blond hair, I can note, reaches his shoulders. "Sorry I'm late," he says, soft-spoken.

Marco acknowledges his apology and walks towards the car, unconvincingly hurrying the other man out of the place. I'm glad his show has gone wrong. It’s a funny thing to watch, Marco not having a plan, not being smooth at his words and actions.

"Who's this, though? Weren't you talking to him?" The lady-like man says. He's not really pansy, but his voice, hair and heart-shaped face make him seem like a woman dressed in men's clothing. He's not tall, either.

"No-?" He asks, or says, or both, and the blonde notes this. He looks up at me, as if to ask something, but Marco instantly interrupts his actions.

"Jean, this is Armin. He's a friend of mine. You know the Daily Days newspaper? He works there. And Armin..." He smiles, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows for a millisecond before continuing. "This is Jean, my _dick_ friend."

"Jean, this is Armin. He's a friend of mine. You know the Daily Days newspaper? He works there. And Armin..." He smiles, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows for a millisecond before continuing. "This is Jean, my _dick_ friend."

"O-ooh!" Armin's expression changes, his wide brows extending along his forehead as his eyes stare directly at Marco and then at me. He doesn’t seem too professional. Not, at least, to work at one of the greatest newspaper editors there are.

"Aaah, that's _jake_. So-um... Do you want him to come with us?" Armin looks at me, then at Marco, and I start shaking my head but my action is soon cut off.

"Where!" Marco yelps.

"...To play poker. With Hanji and the rest?" Armin seems to remind him, and Marco nods.

"Ah, um," He starts, "I-I'm sure he's got other things to do. Besides, Jean, you don't even like playing with _dough_ , right?"  Yeah, I can tell, after all, he _is_ transparent. I can see the nervousness in his eyes and almost feel it in his voice. He's started speaking faster. Maybe, I think, if I go I'll know why he acts like does. So I turn my head-shaking movement into a firm nod accompanied by a smile I consider smug.

"Oh, no, I do. I could join you." I let out, my face pointing at Armin but my eyes looking at Marco, who turns to face me, his mouth open and his eyebrows extended. "Really?"

"Yeah, join us. Nothing wrong's going to happen." Armin eyes Marco and Marco shakes his head ever so slightly as if not wanting me to notice, although I still do. Something inside me pushes a laugh and I let it roam free and up my throat.

 _I will know more about him_ , I think, and quietly thank Armin for not having arrived later. It will be interesting, of that I'm sure. I put both of my hands inside my pants’ pockets and smile, my teeth slightly visible through my gesture.

 _It'll be alright, Marco_. I tap his shoulder, confidence reaching me finally, and I nod again.

"Fine, fine, I'll go."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the language I used in some dialogues. I need to make it seem like it's the 20's wHICH IS SO COMPLETELY DIFFICULT. But still. It's not really complicated to understand so there's that. (Also should I add that investigators were called dicks back then? Idk, they got into nasty stuff.)
> 
> Does someone get the Baccano reference? Because if you did, you might know there's something weird going on!
> 
> Thank you for reading and feel free to point out any mistakes I might've made!

**Author's Note:**

> I worked on this for about two weeks and it's amazing to actually feel that I've finally accomplished something I wanted. 4000 words may be too little of a number, but I'm still really excited for what's to come! 
> 
> This is my first fanfiction, so excuse me if something is wrong.  
> I really hope you've enjoyed. I'll try to update once every one or two weeks depending on how much time I've got in my hands. 
> 
> Also excuse my non-native english. I'm sorry if I made any mistakes. It's not easy.
> 
> (Oh also, I'll give a shoutout to Johanna (johannathemad) for inspiring me into writing this because of her amazing drawings, specially this: http://johannathemad.tumblr.com/post/62793584820/omg-how-about-a-snk-20s-au-tho)


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